


That's My Cue

by Sali_Mali



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sali_Mali/pseuds/Sali_Mali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ahaha I don't even know.  Nick's pining and Ian thinks he knows why. He doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's My Cue

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't ever read this Matt Fincham.
> 
> Also, I apologise profusely for the awful pun in the title.

“Are you jealous?”

It takes Nick a moment to realise Ian has even said anything. He’s too busy watching the game of pool going on across the pub, and the really quite unnecessary amount of touching happening. A ridiculously unnecessary amount, if anyone asks him (and no-one has – which is just rude). 

“What?” he says vaguely.

“You are! You’re jealous.”

This time Nick does hear and just, _no_ , he absolutely is not. “What? I am not _jealous_. I was just watching the game.”

“Of course you were,” says Ian, smirking.

Nick flicks a peanut at him. “Whatever.” He scrapes a bit more of the label off his beer bottle and ignores the smugness radiating off his soon-to-be-ex producer. Then Harry laughs loudly at something Finchy says and he’s back to staring across the bar like Thurston staring at the fridge. “Do you think I should learn to play pool?” he says despondently, when Finchy pulls off a particularly impressive looking shot and he and Harry _fist bump_ for god’s sake.  


Ian slaps his pint down. “Ha! I knew it.”

Nick’s tempted to throw the whole bag of peanuts this time, but he wouldn’t actually mind eating a few of them himself, so he doesn’t. If he could play pool this wouldn’t even be happening. 

“He’s not _stealing him away_ , Nick,” Ian says, sounding a bit too exasperated to be having this conversation. “Matt knows Harry’s your... friend, first.”

The pause before friend seems significant and Nick blinks at him, taken aback. “Right,” he says, as though that’s what he’s been thinking all along. “Yeah, course. I know that, I wasn’t... I’ve got too much dirt on Harry Styles for him to ditch me anyway.”

“What sort of dirt?” Harry’s interested voice cuts in suddenly. He’s still got his pool cue in his hand as he leans across the table to retrieve his beer bottle.

“The kind of dirt I can’t repeat in a public setting, Harold,” Nick says automatically, looking past Harry to where Finchy is just taking off his jumper by the pool table, casual as you please, and exposing far too much of his stomach to anyone who might be looking (Nick) as if it’s acceptable behaviour (Nick’s fine with it). He’s wearing a t-shirt of Nick’s from the last time the team had a drunken sleepover and he finds he’s pretty okay with that too. Belatedly, Nick realises Harry has followed his gaze. He drags his eyes away and takes a long sip of beer. 

“Why d’you need dirt on me anyway?” Harry says, “Have I done something?” 

Nick’s about to make some flippant comment when he catches Harry’s eye and his stomach does a pathetic little flip-flop – because Harry is looking far too amused and knowing and Nick is reminded with sudden and horrible clarity of the many _many_ drunken nights out they’ve had and how...talkative he can get when he’s had a drink (or ten). 

He’s saved by Ian, who has had just enough alcohol to not care about embarrassing Nick in front of half the pub. “He thinks Matt is stealing you away,” he announces, and then takes a hearty gulp of his beer. _Definitely_ a soon-to-be-ex producer.

Harry turns his interested gaze from Nick to Finchy – who’s busy setting up the next game – and then back again. “Really?” he says, eyebrows raised. He takes another swig of his beer, eyes never leaving Nick’s, and how he manages to smirk while drinking, Nick will never know. Then he leans down, close enough to murmur into Nick’s ear like the little demon he is under the guise of putting his drink back on the table. “That’s what you’re worried about, is it?”

He straightens up, grins, and saunters back over to the pool table, leaving Nick frozen in his seat.

“What was that all about?” Ian says, frowning.

Nick unfreezes himself and manages a shrug and a desperate gulp of his drink. “Dunno, it’s just Harry.” Just Harry who is borrowing Finchy’s jumper, the evil little shit, and grinning at Nick. Nick wonders if he’s allowed to blacklist individual band members. Maybe he could just rave klaxon through all his solos.

Ian nods, apparently satisfied with that explanation. “Want another drink?”

“Yeah, okay,” Nick says, narrowing his eyes slightly as Harry says something to Finchy and gestures towards him. Nick is going to blacklist him and shave off all his hair when he’s asleep. He’s not scared of Simon Cowell (mostly).

Then Finchy looks over at him, calling out, “Nick! You and me versus Harry, you up for it?” When Nick hesitates (he wasn’t joking when he said he couldn’t play), Finchy rolls his eyes and adds, “Come on, don’t be precious - I can show you what to do.”

Behind him, Harry gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up and waggles his eyebrows.

Alright, he might be prepared to reconsider the blacklisting and hair shaving. Maybe.

The End


End file.
